On Strike!

Our front yard has an old elm tree with a long, graceful swing that I built for the daughter in happier times. Shortly before three o'clock, with a straw bonnet tied under my chin, I took up my position and started swinging, gradually going higher and higher as I pumped my legs gaily back and forth. In addition to my new bonnet, the fruits of my shopping excursion that morning were on display in the front yard: a large banner was draped across the front of the house, with the words "HUSBAND ON STRIKE" emblazoned in bold red letters, and a refreshment stand and chairs were lined up by the sidewalk. A few well-placed calls to the media had produced the desired result, and two satellite vans with minicam crews were taking up position on either side of my swing when the wife pulled into the driveway.

I watched from on high as she got out of the car in her ridiculous tennis costume and fought her way past the growing throng, pushing and shoving as she went. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw her husband swinging back and forth, his dress fluttering around his knees. When she read the banner, it slowly dawned on her, and she started in on me in a blind fury. "What is the meaning of this?" she roared.

"I'm on strike," I said in a girlish voice just loud enough for the news cameras to pick up.

"You get down from there, right now!"

"Can't make me," I pouted.

"Why are you on strike?" one of the newsmen asked.

"Cause I'm tired of not getting any respect for being the man of the house. Let her try wearing the pants around here for a change."

"Get down here this minute!" the wife screamed. "What will the neighbors say?"

"I think he's adorable," the woman from next door chimed in.

"What are your demands?" the newsman asked.

"Three things: first, I get to go to the football game tomorrow. Second, if my mother-in-law stays more than two days, she moves into a hotel. And third," I said to the wife, "you go on a diet until you can fit into one of my dresses."